


The Fall Makes You Break

by FiaMac



Series: Psycho Heroes [11]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: BAMF Arthur, BAMF Eames, Bottom Arthur, Edging, Established Relationship, Jealous Eames, Light Bondage, M/M, Possessive Eames, Post-Inception, Top Eames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-05-28 21:59:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6347263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames gets a taste of jealousy, aka the Steinle Incident. Set six months after "Twitch" and "Died In Your Arms"<br/>  <br/><i>"Eames is not a man given to hatred. It’s bad for his complexion, to say nothing of the equanimity needed for being a successful forger. But all rules are merely guidelines, and exceptions must be made when called for. Exceptions such as that fucker, Peter Steinle."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Your Heart's So Sticky Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> In my little mental movie, the part of Peter Steinle would be played by Zachary Quinto because putting those three delectable creatures in one room is just asking for some glorious trouble.

 

Eames is not a man given to hatred. It’s bad for his complexion, to say nothing of the equanimity needed for being a successful forger. But all rules are merely guidelines, and exceptions must be made when called for. Exceptions such as that fucker, Peter Steinle.

In moments of fairness, however few and far between, Eames will admit that Steinle brings a lot to the table. A precocious twenty-something with an impressive resume despite his short time in dreamshare, Steinle is touted—amongst those whose opinions matter—as the newest shining star of extraction. _Works magic on the marks_ , they say. _He brings a level of cunning to the game that hasn’t been seen since Dominic Cobb dropped out of the scene_ , he hears. Of course, that remark alone has Eames prepared to dislike the man. But the hatred—the furtive, festering loathing he feels for Steinle begins the minute they meet.

 

 

 

They meet in Rome, per Arthur’s insistence. Paranoid fiend that he is, Arthur likes to make first contact on neutral ground, away from the location of the job. Thus they make plans to meet Steinle at a backstreet restaurant near the Fontana di Trevi. While they wait, they bandy about the idea of taking in some sights while they’re in the city.

Eames loves being in Italy with Arthur, who navigates the winding roads and crowded landmarks like a native. And the restaurant, with its plaster walls and rickety outdoor tables, would have been the perfect place to have lunch and take in some local color. Had they been alone.

He really wishes they were alone.

From the first _hello_ , Steinle hones in on Arthur like a rookie meeting his favorite footballer. He gushes over the “honor” of working with dreamshare’s premier pointman—no mention of his feelings towards the man who invented forging, not that anyone’s tracking. He namedrops every top-level extractor he’s met personally. He orders dessert and flashes the M.C. Escher designs tattooed on his forearms every time he takes a dainty spoonful of mango gelato.

Steinle is sophisticated, intelligent, and admittedly attractive in his tight jeans and designer shirt. But none of that is why Eames hates him.

Eames hates Steinle because Arthur so clearly _doesn’t_.

Arthur laughs at Steinle’s jokes and debates cosmological theory with him. Arthur _smiles_ as they shake hands after lunch and make well-structured plans to meet up in a few days, stating how much he’s _looking forward_ to working with the young extractor. It’s all very distressing and horrid, and Eames can’t decide if he should comment or not on Arthur’s unusually friendly behavior. But then Arthur suggests they visit the Villa Borghese gardens, holds Eames’s hand while they stroll through the manicured parkways, and Eames decides he doesn’t want to ruin what turns out to be a splendid afternoon.

 

 

 

As scheduled, they drive up north to Turin two days later, after a there-and-back jaunt to Arthur’s safe house in Naples. Eames watches Arthur pack up extra clothes, guns, and a freshly-calibrated PASIV, and he wonders if he’s just imagining things or if Arthur is putting a little too much care into picking out which suits to bring.

Steinle has already set up their work location, a concession Arthur rarely cedes to the extractors he works with. Eames has a hard time finding points to criticize, though. The house Steinle secured is a stylish if rundown two-story building with red shutters and a front courtyard screened on all sides by large, lush trees. It’s private, charming, spacious on the inside, and only a short walk to a very promising-looking osteria. In other words, it’s damnably perfect, and exactly the sort of place Arthur would have picked out himself.

The only other member of the team is the architect, a faux-hawked, baby-faced woman named Marlie. Eames appreciates her keen gaze and no-nonsense demeanor—as well as her completely nonsensical attire of fishnets and rain boots. Eames is willing to forgive her for her obvious attraction to Steinle’s black, hipster hair and wry smile, especially when she lets him use her as a physical barrier between Steinle and Arthur during the briefing.

The job itself is straightforward. An American professor, Larry Woodsburne of sunny UCLA, has apparently found a way to improve the efficiency of ocean thermal energy conversion, making OTEC-sourced electricity more financially viable, but is keeping a lid on the discovery while more tests are conducted. Of course, these things are never as secret as one hopes, and the owner of a failing wind turbine manufacturing company wants to steal the design and break into a new market before Woodsburne has a chance to publicize his work. Meanwhile, the professor will be traveling to Turin to present at a conference on green engineering, setting up the perfect opportunity for a little dream thievery.

Listening to Steinle—or Peter, as Arthur calls him—describe the task at hand, it quickly becomes apparent that this job doesn’t require a forger or even a third extractor. Eames can only imagine that the reason he’s even there is because extractors everywhere have quickly learned that Eames and Arthur are now a packaged deal, and Steinle clearly wanted Arthur for this job.

Observing Arthur and Steinle work together feels like swallowing glass. Steinle was a research assistant in a past life, so he speaks Arthur’s language of meticulous notes and organized planning. Between the two of them, they have the particulars of the job lined out in an hour, leaving Eames and Marlie to sit back and spectate.

Steinle is a powerhouse of ideas, all of which Eames hates to admit are clever and viable. He really could be a contender for Cobb in the ranks of best extractor, but it’s a thousand times worse than Cobb because, with each idea, Steinle seeks Arthur’s approval like an eager protégé, and fuck if Arthur doesn’t give it at every turn.

When it’s time to bring the meeting to a close, Eames is quick to make their excuses and hustle a bemused Arthur out the door, feeling eyes on his back the entire time.

 

 


	2. Play the Hand You're Given

Eames is beside himself by the time they settle into their hotel room for the night, a lovely suite with a direct view of the river. A pity he’s not in a mood to enjoy it.

Arthur, for his part, looks drained—stubborn bastard refused to give up the wheel to and from Naples—and yet endearingly charming as he smiles at Eames sleepily. “I’m going to clean up for bed. You coming?”

“Yeah, yeah, be right in.” But he lingers in the front room of the suite, feeling like an idiot. Eames tells himself Arthur is not the type to sleep around, and that he’s far too straightforward to play love-triangle games. But Eames still can’t help the restlessness under his skin. And even though, just seconds past, he was anxious for a moment to himself to just _breathe_ , he suddenly can’t stand having Arthur out of his sight another moment longer.

He finds Arthur in the bathroom, stripped down to his trousers and brushing his teeth. Eames hovers in the doorway, watching and musing on what a simple miracle it is to be seeing Arthur like this, in these unguarded moments of daily life. They haven’t spoken about it, but it’s a foregone conclusion that they’re essentially living together, however unconventional and nomadic their lives may be. And it’s been brilliantly easy—sleeping it the same bed, planning meals, sharing bathroom space. Eames is astonished by how much of a natural Arthur has turned out to be with all this domestic stuff, and more surprised still by his own painless slip into a steady relationship. Even with all the people he’s encountered and all the cities he’s passed through over these last months, at the end of the day the only place he wants to be is right here, watching Arthur scrub at his molars with typical diligence.

Arthur looks back at him in the mirror with curiosity. “What’s up?” he asks around a mouthful of foam.

Eames gives himself a shake. “Nothing, pet. Just admiring the view.”

“That right?”

“Absolutely. You’re a lovely man.” Truer words have never been uttered, but they’re not the ones crowding his mind, urging onto the tip of his tongue. Not quite.

Arthur finishes up with a final rinse and goes to stand in front of Eames, hands moving easily to cradle Eames’s hipbones. “I love it when you flirt with me.”

Eames cants his head, anticipating the punchline. “Why’s that, hm?”

“Because it’s completely unnecessary,” Arthur says, looking remarkably less tired than earlier, and leans forward to brush minty lips against his. “You already know you’re getting lucky tonight.”

Eames perks up, ready to cast aside the turmoil of the day in favor of something far more satisfying. “Am I? Why Arthur, you little strumpet.”

Arthur just smirks and grips the front of his shirt. “Take off your clothes, Eames.”

“You first.” Eames undos Arthur’s slacks and nudges them down along with his pants. Arthur wriggles free of the piling cloth with a casual grace that does funny things to Eames’s equilibrium.

Not wasting a second, Eames crowds in against him, fitting their mouths together in a deep kiss that takes them from _slow heat_ to _burn_ in an instant. He laps at Arthur’s upper lip—that adorable bow that taunts him when Arthur is all buttoned up and serious—grunting when Arthur responds by nipping at him impatiently. He opens up for Arthur’s tongue, sucks on the tip and inhales Arthur’s moans as if they were his own.

Arthur pulls away, gasping. “Too many fucking clothes.” He sets to work removing the offending garments even as Eames walks him backwards towards the bed. Once naked, he shoves Arthur onto the mattress with a full-body tackle and groans at the heat coming off Arthur’s naked skin, the satiny texture of it against his own bared flesh.

They roll onto their sides, clinging to each other. Their similar heights mean everything from lips to legs are perfectly aligned, even their toes entwine in a mini embrace. Arthur sucks on the side of Eames’s neck, that perfect spot that makes goosebumps run down his arms. Eames responds by palming Arthur’s ass and using it as a handgrip to pull Arthur tight up against him, their erections pressed between them in a delectable vise.

Eames drags his face along the side of Arthur’s jaw, drawing in the crisp scents of Burberry cologne, toothpaste, and gun oil. He closes his eyes to better absorb the distinct fragrance of his lover, convinced he’ll be able to recall it perfectly until the end of his days. He searches blindly for Arthur’s lips, tongue slipping wetly into his mouth. At that same moment, Arthur’s clever fingers reach up to pinch at Eames’s nipple, tugging and squeezing hard enough to mix pain with pleasure. Eames gasps and feels Arthur smile against his kiss. So he retaliates by shifting his hips, rutting against the slick head of Arthur’s cock.

Arthur moans, spreads his legs so that Eames can slot himself in closer. He rolls his hips, increasing the pressure and friction on their dicks until Arthur’s moans break apart into whimpers, the sound rich and wanton and the most beautiful thing Eames has ever heard. It goes to his head, driving him a little crazy with the frantic need to elicit more noises out of his lover. He breaks off the kiss, attacks Arthur’s neck with his teeth and tongue, scours that long stretch of skin with his beard. Arthur rewards him with breathy little keens from the back of his throat, which only prompts him to redouble his efforts.

Arthur claws at his shoulders, holding desperately tight as he bucks into Eames’s pelvis. Eames rolls onto his back, dragging Arthur over him so that he can bring both hands into play—one fisted in that glorious dark hair, tugging Arthur’s head to the side so that he can properly feast on his favorite parts of Arthur’s neck, while the other hand roams the taut muscles of Arthur’s back, relishing the way they bunch and flex as Arthur frots against his erection, working them both into a frenzy.

Arthur snakes a hand between them, wraps one of those devastatingly capable hands around both of their cocks, massaging the heads as he continues to rub their shafts together. The friction is sharp and intense, almost too much to be pleasurable. Eames hisses and, without thinking, sinks his teeth into the firm curve of Arthur’s shoulder. Hard. He feels Arthur’s entire body jolt with a startled cry, the slice of pain pushing Arthur into climax. Eames feels Arthur’s cock flex against his, spending his come all over both of them. His own breath stutters, he’s so close himself.

Thankfully, Arthur is a considerate bed partner. With his dick still twitching in orgasm, Arthur sits up and uses his own come to ease the way as he jacks Eames’s cock with a tight fist. Eames pushes up into Arthur’s hand, racing after completion. It doesn’t take long to finish him off, the memories of Arthur’s decadent moans still ringing in his ears. One final twist of Arthur’s wrist and he’s done for, jetting into the space between them with a soul-cleansing groan. Arthur jerks him through it, movements tapering to a firm yet gentle hold as both of their heartbeats level out.

Eames takes in the view of Arthur perched on top of him, with lazy eyes and Eames’s come splattered across his chest. The sight does something to him, provokes Eames’s territorial instincts yet soothes them at the same time. With deliberate movements, he reaches up to rub the gleaming drops into Arthur’s skin, making careful note of the way Arthur’s breath trembles as he does.

Arthur grabs Eames’s hand and licks at his sticky fingers without break eye contact. Had he been ten years younger, Eames would have thrown Arthur onto his hands and knees for that look alone. As it is, Eames has to clear his throat twice before he can speak. “Christ, you’re a menace.”

Arthur grins around Eames’s fingertips like the incorrigible tart he is. “You love it.”

 _Love you_ , Eames thinks, and sighs. “That I do.”

 

 


	3. While You Were Confessing

If Eames wasn’t already sure that he was stupidly in love, he would have known for certain the following morning when Arthur takes one look in the mirror at the scattering of marks along his neck and just smiles. He doesn’t say anything to Eames about it as he goes about his morning routine, but he winks and picks out his flashiest tie—a purple and black geometric pattern that inevitably draws eyes to his neck. And when they end up being forty-eight minutes behind schedule, Arthur simply laughs and dons his tie for a second time.

Eames moves with an extra flaunt to his jaunt that morning, especially when Steinle looks at Arthur and gets a wondrously pinched look about the face. Of course, the fucker wastes no time in drawing Arthur off to the side for some logistics talk, but Eames takes solace in the twinge he feels every time he shifts in his chair and manfully represses the urge to stick his tongue out at Steinle’s back. Mostly because Marlie is watching with avid amusement.

It turns out to be another boring day at the office—after pulling off a sanity-risking, three-level inception on a militarized mark whilst flying over the Pacific Ocean, all jobs since have been rendered rather mundane. And while Eames is happy to go the rest of his life without ever chancing those odds again, he has to admit that he misses a good challenge.

Cracking Robert Fischer had been one of the greatest moments of his career—it hadn’t even been the successful inception so much as breaking the code of needs and drives that made a complex man like Fischer tick. That feeling of revelation, of understanding, had been the true motivating force for Eames on that job, and the obstacles surrounding the situation had only made the puzzle that much more enticing. But now Arthur keeps picking up these routine jobs like he has something to prove. And where Arthur leads, he will ultimately follow. If he gets bored with the work from time to time, that’s a small price to pay for the privilege of waking up next this man that is increasingly coming to mean everything to him.

 

 

It's decided quickly that Arthur will be the dreamer for the job, as everyone concedes without argument that he’s the most stable dreamer among them. He sets aside the afternoon to go over the dream build with Marlie, the two of them going under shortly after lunch.

Eames has every intention of ignoring Steinle’s continued existence, but the other man fails to cooperate. After waiting half a minute to make sure the two dreamers stay down, he saunters over to where Eames is ostensibly watching surveillance footage of Woodsburne’s intern on Arthur’s laptop. It just so happens that his position allows him to keep a proprietary eye on the sleeping form beside him.

Eames sits up taller as Steinle nears, knowing he looks like a territorial guard dog and patently not giving a fuck. He’s been anticipating this moment all week. “Got something on your mind, then.”

“I’m sorry?” Steinle tries for a confused look, but few people understand the natures of truth and lies as well as Eames does.

“No, I don’t imagine you are.” He gets to his feet, shoulders thrown back. Steinle may be taller than him—fucker—but he lacks Eames’s considerable muscle mass and lethal training. He greatly enjoys the shift in Steinle’s stance when the other man realizes that for himself. “Come on, then. Haven’t got long before they wake up, so let’s get this out of the way.”

Steinle must give himself some kind of internal pep talk because he actually smiles, as if they were just two gents having a little chat at the watercooler. “Hey, now, no need to get worked up. I just think it’s… interesting. The two of you, I mean.”

It’s a baited comment, of course he knows that. But he wants to move this interaction along. “Alright, I’ll bite. Just what has you so interested about Arthur and me.”

“Well, you’re rather the odd couple, wouldn’t you say?”

Eames bites back an impatient snarl. “And how do you figure?”

Steinle’s grin is all teeth as he shrugs. “Just that I wouldn’t have pegged you two for a couple. Kind of hard to see how you… fit. You know.”

Eames pulls the scowl off his face with difficulty, understanding that Steinle is going to keep playing vague unless pushed. Well, so be it, then. Eames is good at pushing. He sidles up to Arthur’s sleeping figure and runs a familiar hand along the stretched line of Arthur’s neck. “Well, now, don’t you worry your pretty head about that,” he croons, fingers trailing over the dark marks he put there. “I fit just fine. Maybe a bit snug, but Arthur likes it tight.”

He enjoys a moment of victory when Steinle flushes and flicks his gaze away from Arthur’s skin, but it’s a short-lived triumph. Steinle squares up and tries to stare him down. “Sure, whatever gets you off. Though I never would have thought a man like Arthur could be content with a long-term booty call.” And then the motherfucker _smirks_ at him. “He’s so very… particular. A thoroughbred among mules, if you will. But who am I to judge if he wants to rough it every now and then. I just would have expected him to hook up with a… certain kind of guy.”

Eames smiles, tight and sarcastic, eyes locked on Steinle’s in an unblinking stare. “One such as yourself, no doubt.”

Steinle puffs up, broadcasting self-confidence and righteousness in his five-hundred dollar Dior shirt. “I understand how a man like him works.”

“You really believe that.” Eames chuckles and steps into Steinle’s breathing room, his voice dropping low and husky. “You look at Arthur’s expensive suits and tidy handwriting, and you think you know the man. I’ll let you in on something, you delusional tit. That ‘thoroughbred’ over there would strangle you with your own entrails without so much as a blink if it served his purposes. By the time he was your age, Arthur was learning how to infiltrate war zones and skin men alive with a broken beer bottle. His idea of ‘roughing it’ consists of cauterizing your own wounds with a welding torch because you shot the only doctor within a hundred miles. You really think you understand _that?_ You think you’ve got the stones to _handle_ that?”

Steinle flounders for a few blinks before visibly shrugging off Eames’s words. “I think I’m not going lend credence to every rumor that gets knocked around this business.”

This time Eames laughs in genuine amusement. “Oh, you foolish little boy.”

And before Steinle can respond, Arthur and Marlie begin to wake up. Eames steps away from Steinle, moving back into Arthur’s immediate sphere. Arthur immediately launches into shop talk, he and Marlie seeming oblivious to the sullen undercurrent in Steinle’s mood. Eames makes a great show of flirting outrageously with Marlie under Arthur’s indulgent smile. Steinle makes excuses about an early dinner date an hour later, and Eames considers himself winner of the day’s scrimmage.

 

* * *

 

Lying in bed that night, Eames dwells on what, exactly, could make a man like Arthur content. They haven’t really put a word to what it is between them, haven’t talked about anything further in the future than the next job, the next location. For his part, Arthur seems to just be moving with the flow of things, which is so decidedly unlike Arthur that Eames has to wonder what the endgame is. And who the winner will be

 


	4. Take Your Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think I was gonna make you wait another three months for an update, did you?

The upside to boring jobs is the minimal man hours required. Strategy meetings are brief and the builds are easy to learn. All this translates happily into less time spent cooped up with Steinle, and after just a few days of prep Eames is checking into the Principe di Piemonte hotel under the name Steve McAndrews—an identity he set up specifically for jobs in this region of Europe—with the PASIV and Arthur’s laptop tucked away in his luggage. The hotel lobby is bustling with conference attendees checking in and passing through on their way to dinner, which allows Eames to fly through without garnering a second glance from any of the harried hotel staff.

Ten minutes after he gets to the room, there’s a perfectly timed knock on the door. He lets Arthur in and stands back while the other man looks around. “Nice.”

“It’ll do. I could certainly think of worse places to wait out the evening with you.”

Arthur checks his watch. “We’ve got… four hours until Peter and Marlie come in with the post-dinner crowd. We’ll have to fill the time somehow.”

Eames considers that. “I suppose we could order room service, watch a bit of telly. Think this place gets BBC One?”

Sure enough, they end up snuggled on the bed, watching a marathon run of _The Great British Baking Show_ over a shared plate of lobster ravioli. Eames makes mental note of the moment, knowing it goes against Arthur’s accustomed grain to lay about whilst technically on the clock. But it’s also at times like this when Arthur is most relaxed, these impulsive breaks from expectation and dutiful habit.

So it’s with great regret when, at a light knock on the hotel room door, he lets Arthur disentangle himself from their cozy nest. “Recess is over, then.”

Arthur shrugs. “The job will be over quickly enough,” he says, opening the door to reveal Marlie shifting nervously under Steinle’s arm, the two of them making a dismal show of playing a couple. “Christ, get in here before someone sees you.”

Steinle grins—rather obtusely, Eames thinks—and advances into the room in a way that brushes his arm against Arthur’s chest. He eyes the Arthur-shaped imprint on the bed next to Eames and throws his chin up, face pulled into an overstretched grin. “Okay, team, let’s go over it one more time.”

The situation really couldn’t be more hand-picked for an extraction. Seeing as how Woodsburne is in town attending a conference, they’ll catch him at night and induce a dream making him believe he’s there to present his new findings. No real coercion will be necessary; he’ll lay it all out for them complete with annotated slides. Steinle’s role is to play the conference coordinator, smoothing the conversion from dream to belief. After the presentation, Eames will forge the professor’s intern and guide Woodsburne through a short series of transition builds, all chronicling the whirlwind publicity of his discovery, leading to a design meeting with Arthur, ostensibly the vice president of project management with the Ocean Tide Energy Corporation. By the time they pull out of the dream, Woodsburne will have literally drawn them a picture with all the details they need to recreate his discovery.

It’s a sure win, and Eames has to remind himself to not be disappointed by that.

In the waiting hours until go-time, Arthur digs his laptop and some of his sexy-smart spy gear out of the luggage and makes a duplicate of Woodsburne’s key card. Marlie and Eames sprawl out on the bed playing tic-tac-toe while Steinle pretends to be engrossed in an Italian documentary on mosaic art. Eames knows for a fact that the man’s grasp of Italian is even worse than his, but Steinle just squints at the television like he’s learning the meaning of life.

At long last, the clock ticks over to one in the morning, and Arthur shuts down his laptop. Steinle mutes the telly with a huff of relief while Marlie tallies up her wins. Eames gets up to join Arthur at the door, where he’s pulling off his tie and unbuttoning his collar. “Good enough?” he asks.

Eames gives him a quick consideration before reaching up to tousle Arthur’s hair out of its sleek style.

“Hey!”

Eames just smiles unrepentantly. “There, now you properly look like you’ve been carousing until the wee hours, and less like a man about to break into someone’s hotel room.”

Arthur eyes himself in the bureau mirror with skepticism but doesn’t argue. “See you soon.” And with that, he slips out to make his way to Woodsburne’s room, one floor below. Arthur had insisted on doing this part alone on the very obvious basis that he’s the most qualified to sneak into a dark room without alerting its occupant. According to their research, Woodsburne is a firm believer of schedules. In bed by eleven thirty each night, up by seven. Arthur’s job is to go in first, dose the good professor with a jab of sedative, then call in the troops. Should everything go as intended, Woodsburne will already be deeply asleep when Arthur sneaks in, none that wiser that his dreams are anything but garden variety.

On schedule, Eames’s phone buzzes with an incoming text. “That’s our cue. Off out.”

Eames goes first, the others three and six minutes behind him respectively. With the PASIV disguised in a carry-on tote, he takes the stairs one floor down. The door to Woodsburne’s room opens silently right as he approaches. Inside the bedside lamp is on, the mark laid out, asleep and oblivious to their presence. Eames hands Arthur the bag with the PASIV. “All good?”

“Going as planned.” Arthur replies, moving quickly to set the PASIV up. Eames keeps watch for the rest of the team, easing the door open when they come trickling in.

Marlie takes up position next to the device, finger on the button, while the men make themselves comfortable on the floor around the bed. “Sweet dreams, everyone.”

 

 

Eames ducks low to avoid taking broken glass to the face, fighting off a wave of déjà vu. Arthur is in the driver’s seat, wrestling the stolen car around gridlocked traffic with a furious scowl carved into his face.

“I don’t understand,” Steinle, in the backseat next him, keeps pivoting around, torn between watching the armed men pursing them and the near-collisions to the front. “The mark shouldn’t be militarized. He’s just a fucking teaching, for fuck’s sake.”

“Yes, well, these things do tend to happen,” Eames says it as lightly as he can, hyperaware of growing cloud of anger emanating from the front of the car. “Darling?”

Arthur’s eyes flick to his in the rearview mirror just long enough for Eames to see his frustration, but his voice is confident when he says, “The background check was clear. Woodsburne has never been trained.”

“So what the fuck is this, then?” Steinle flinches as a bullet lodges into the roof of the car.

Eames drags him down by the front of his shirt since the man is proving too stupid to duck. “Stay low,” he advises. Then, capitalizing on another well-placed shot, he shoves Steinle facedown into the footwell with a firm hand to the back of the neck.

Arthur wheels around an idling taxi into a less-congested crossroad. “Eames, how many sub-sec projections did you see?”

“About five, I’d say.”

“Agreed. Notice anything odd about them?”

Eames throws a lascivious grin up to the front of the car. “Besides the fact that they all reminded me of you?”

Inexplicably, Arthur’s shoulders lose some of their angry rigidity. “Exactly that, actually.”

“What? Suits and fancy hair? Afraid you’re going to have to spell things out, love.”

“When was the last time you watched _The Matrix_?”

“What are y—oh, fuck me. Are you kidding me, right now?” Eames doesn’t know if he should laugh or shoot them all in the head. He settles for staring incredulously at Arthur’s reflection in the rear-view.

Steinle manages to wriggle out from under Eames’s hold but stays crouched low. “Jesus, what the hell are you two talking about?”

Eames spares him a side glance. “Woodsburne hasn’t been trained, he’s naturally militarized.”

“Seriously? How does that even happen?”

“Natural talent and paranoia meets overactive imagination. We don’t see it a lot, but it does happen.” And Eames has always had suspicions about where Arthur picked up his own sub-security if he was training Cobb’s people only two years into the program.

“Movie fanatic,” Arthur pitches in. “The guy’s got a lot of movie expenses—mostly sci-fi and fantasy action. Hence Agent Smith on our asses right now.”

“Who?”

Arthur frowns over his shoulder at Steinle. “Smith. You know, the bad guy from… _really?”_ Arthur is genuinely affronted by the man’s blank stare. “That movie is, like, required watching for this business.”

“I don’t—”

“Gentlemen,” Eames cuts in, “perhaps we could focus back on the matter at hand?”

Arthur gives a sheepish wince. “Right. New plan.” His voice takes on a commanding edge that always makes Eames’s balls perk up in attention. “Steinle, you’re going to have to track down where the mark might have hidden the information.”

“Maybe we shoul—”

“Eames and I will distract the projections for as long as we can.”

Eames is nodding before Arthur finishes the sentence, seeing where the plan is headed. “Cat and mouse bit?”

“Essentially. Woodsburne has set up the scene, we just need to play into the fantasy. If we do this right, he should wake up thinking he had a really vivid dream, none the wiser.”

“Well, we’ve worked with worse.” He and Arthur share a smile.

Arthur dodges their tail long enough to pull into an alley and ditch the car. Steinle breaks off to circle back around to the conference venue while Eames and Arthur stride back into the fray. They pick a fairly busy street corner to loiter on, where they’re guaranteed to draw the attention of sub-security. Arthur looks at Eames. “You ready?”

Eames nods. “Should be fun.”

On an unspoken cue, they both dream up new outfits for themselves, all-black getups with conspicuously long trench coats, shit-kicker boots, and sunglasses. Eames looks down at himself with a grimace. He looks absurd in trench coats, he thinks, like a Wild West reject, and he’ll be glad to see the backend of this job. He turns to Arthur to say as much and feels his jaw drop. “Leather trousers? Darling, you’re trying to give me heart failure.”

With his slick, dark hair and rangy build, Arthur plays the role beautifully in fitted leather trousers, black driving gloves, and a sleek coat with the collar popped high. He smiles arrogantly, striking a bit of a pose. “I actually own these pants. Got them stashed in Paris, if you’re interested.”

Eames intends to reply with the thoroughly suggestive comment that remark deserves, but his words are cut off by incoming gunfire and mayhem. A trio of suited projections have popped into existence on the pavement across from them, brandishing handguns with convincing menace.

Arthur and Eames take off running, slipping through oblivious pedestrians. They navigate the crowds and alleys in perfect tandem, dodging bullets and keeping out of reach without losing their tails too soon. Eames isn’t the least surprised when the chase ends in an abandoned playground, very dramatic looking with rusted swing sets and overgrown shrubs. The cliché of it all is enough to break his heart.

Bight clangs of bullets ricocheting off the monkey bars spur them to take refuge behind a large concrete planter. Gray dust rains down on them in tiny motes as the projections lets loose with gunfire.

Arthur’s mouth is a firm line beneath his dark glasses as he dreams up a second Glock. He readies both guns, poised on the balls of his feet. “Remember to make it look good.”

Eames reloads his own weapon, cursing internally when he has to dig around folds of stiff leather for the inner pocket. “I’d say, between the two of us, you’ve got that end covered. I’m feeling a bit ridiculous in this coat, myself.”

“Nah, you look great,” Arthur intones. “Very dashing.” And with that, he presses a quick kiss to Eames’s cheek before sprinting off towards the slides, bullets chasing him the entire way.

Eames can’t help but smile. “Well, then. The man wants dashing.” He surges out to a wooden monstrosity designed to resemble a treehouse but looking more like a deathtrap for toddlers, firing repeatedly into a group of projections advancing on his position. He does his best to play up the drama, overemphasizing his shooting stance and posing theatrically when he reloads. But the truth is he feels like an utter ponce, and the sunglasses keep slipping down his nose.

Arthur, unsurprisingly, fits the charade with little stretch of the mind. He moves in and out of Eames’s eyeline, jetting about in a flurry of black leather and blazing pistols. There’s even some gratuitous wall flips tossed in there, and Eames suspects Arthur’s having a lot more fun with the farce than his stony expression lets on. It would seem his sweet pigeon may be a closet _Matrix_ fan. Eames gets distracted, thinking of all the ways to use this information for his own nefarious gain, when he feels the cool metal of a gun barrel against his neck. “Fuck.”

“Aptly put.”

It’s the mark, Woodsburne, sporting his own mafia hairdo and dark glasses. While Eames finds it very interesting that Woodsburne chooses the villain role for himself, he’s too busy being dragged out to the middle of the playground at gunpoint to appropriately analyze that revelation.

And that’s how Eames finds himself on his knees, arms pinned behind him and surrounded by silent projections, while their mark stands over him, monologuing up a storm. Arthur, hidden somewhere along the periphery of the playground, ceased firing the moment Woodsburne got the drop on Eames. Eames knows Arthur won’t risk killing the mark, sending him out of the dream too soon, so they have to let Woodsburne keep the upper hand long enough for Steinle to ferret out the good professor’s secrets. All of which forces them into a standstill while Woodsburne hams it up.

When the standoff fails to produce Arthur’s immediate capitulation, Woodsburne pokes Eames with the end of his gun. “Tell your partner to come out, hands in the air, before you pay the price for his stubbornness.”

Eames knows his job is to spin the theatrics out as long as he can without provoking Woodsburne into killing him. “You hear that, love? The nice man with the gun would like you to surrender yourself now.”

A single shot pings into the ground two inches from Woodsburne’s foot. Arthur knows a thing or two about theatrics, himself.

Woodsburne gives an exaggerated sigh. “You leave me no choice, then.” He raises the nickel-plated Beretta, aims, and shoots Eames in the knee.

Eames feels the joint shatter with a rush of hot agony and a nauseating crunch. He doesn’t scream—just barely keeps that jot of dignity—but the wounded-animal sound escapes him despite his best intentions. _Jesus, why is it always the knee?_ He breathes through it, knowing there will probably be more pain to follow. Pain is never a one-time deal, in his experience.

Sure enough, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye, and is bracing for the next shot, when a full-on screech of agony cuts through the air. It takes Eames a moment to realize it isn’t his own scream but rather Woodsburne crying out, cradling his bleeding hand, shattered gun at his feet. Belatedly, Eames hears the crack of a gunshot sounding off the pavement.

He looks up to see the Smith-a-likes charging forward, converging on Arthur as he barrels towards them. The sight of Arthur’s face does a fair job at distracting Eames from the pain in his leg. The last time he saw Arthur looking that pissed off was in Toronto. _Good times_ , he thinks, sloping clumsily onto his side.

Arthur shoots the first wave of Smith-a-likes in their faces without slowing down, cutting their number down by half in just seconds. Clips empty, he drops the guns and collides full-on with the leading Smith-a-like. With a quick grapple, Arthur sends the projection flying heavily to the ground and meets the next two offenses with a series of arm blocks and kicks that would have been a beauteous sight to behold, were Eames in the mood to appreciate it.

A third projection moves in from behind and tries to pin Arthur’s arms, but Arthur rears up and drives a vicious back kick to the projection’s ankle and spins out of the hold in time to reengage with another Smith-a-like just as it tries to surprise him with a punch to the head. Arthur ducks the blow, using the projection’s forward momentum against it as he plows his knee up into its ribs with cracking force. The next projection successfully catches Arthur from behind with a choke hold while another swings back with its fist. Arthur shifts his weight back onto the projection holding him, swinging his feet up, and kicks Puncher in the face before propelling himself in a flip over Choke-Hold’s back. He drives a burst of brutal punches to Choke-Hold’s kidneys, capped with a roundhouse to the temple. The projection goes down and doesn’t get back up.

A fresh Smith-a-like rushes in and lands a bruiser of a kick to the back of Arthur’s leg, causing Arthur to drop to one knee. He narrowly blocks the next kick with raised arms. On the third kick, he grabs the Smith-a-like’s leg and yanks. The projection hits the ground, skull bouncing hard enough to be heard across the playground.

Arthur whirls back up to his feet and launches himself at the next batch of projections. A knot of black suits forms around him, a concentrated battle of ruthless strikes and dropping bodies. Eames, no shrinking violet when it comes to violence, is surprisingly disturbed by the near silence of the fight. The projections stay true to character, naturally, but Arthur never cries out, not even when he takes a particularly nasty hit in the lower back. The only sounds are the meaty thuds of fists striking flesh and the occasional snap of bone.

After a time, the fighting Smith-a-likes reduce to a scattering of bodies and one lone projection struggling to get to its feet. Arthur dispatches it with a decisive kick to the face, and suddenly all is still. Arthur stands in the middle of the fallen projections like an angel of death in black leather and silken hair. His eyes are dark and vacant, predatory as he pins his gaze on where Woodsburne huddles, whimpering over his ruined hand and staring at Arthur like he’s the coming of Christ.

Arthur stalks across the short distance, sights honed in on Woodsburne, and some half-buried instinct pushes Eames to a nervous edge. Arthur like this—cold, feral, though undeniably sexy as hell—is an uncomfortable reminder of early years best forgotten most days, and Eames hates not being on his feet right then. He struggles to get off the ground, but a fresh wave of pain drops him before he can get his good leg under him. He has no choice but to crouch helplessly while Arthur looms over their mark.

And not until that moment does Eames truly appreciate just how much Arthur has changed over the years. This menacing creature isn’t the man he’s fallen arse over kettle for, at least not the sum of him. It once was, sure, but these days his Arthur is cheeky and generous, adorably nerdy and, yes, still quite deadly and hostile, but he has the sweetest laugh, and he’s a fantastic cuddler, and all of his jagged edges fit just perfectly along Eames’s own rough spots. He is, without exaggeration, the best man that Eames could never deserve, and it takes all of Eames’s willpower not to blurt these thoughts out right then and there.

So, naturally, Steinle chooses that moment to make his presence known, jogging through the Arthur-induced carnage with a cautious step. From the way his eyes keep flickering back to the point man, it’s clear that he witnessed at least some of Arthur in action and is shocked to discovered what a man as _particular_ as Arthur is capable of. His wide gaze swivels around, ultimately settling his eyes on Woodsburne’s ball of misery.

Arthur sees him approach and backs away from Woodsburne. Somewhat hesitantly, Eames notes. “Did you get it?” Arthur asks in a flat tone, helping Eames to his feet. His eyes are still distant, and Eames doesn’t like it one bit. He wants _his_ Arthur back, damnit, and he leans into Arthur’s side more than strictly necessary.

Steinle takes in their Keanu-getups, Eames’s bloody leg, the dead projections, and the weeping mark. It takes him a second to speak. “I did. Had to do some tricky file decrypting, but I got it.” He lets out a shaky breath. “What’s his deal?”

“Shot in the hand,” Eames says when Arthur doesn’t seem inclined to answer. They both watch dispassionately as Steinle nudges Woodsburne with a toe. Eames and Steinle both jump when Woodsburne lets out a shuddering wail. Arthur just slides an arm around Eames’s waist and holds tight.

Steinle’s lip curls, maybe at the display of affection, maybe at the caterwauling. “Bit excessive, don’t ya think?”

Arthur shrugs. “I amplified the pain feedback in the dream.” When Eames’s and Steinle just stare back, he shrugs again. “It was either that or shoot him again. I didn’t want to chance killing him. The pain should be enough to immobilize him without shocking him out the dream early.”

“You can do that?” Steinle gasps.

“It’s my dream. My rules.”

Eames grimaces, understanding now why his one injury is causing him so much trouble. “Arthur, my dodgy poppet, you’ve been holding out on me.” It hurts, yeah, but mostly he’s impressed, which he expresses by cupping a hand over Arthur’s leather-clad bum.

Arthur gifts him with a tiny smile, bashful around the edges, and Eames is relieved to see familiarity creeping back into that gaze. “Just a theory. I haven’t tested it until now.”

Steinle goggles at Arthur, perhaps comparing all the rumors he’s heard with the truth laid out before him. Perhaps finally realizing how out of his depth he is here, or so Eames can hope. _See_ , he wants to point to the bodies and shout, _s_ _ee what he is. What we are. You could never touch this._

Arthur has already turned his attention to booting them all from the dream before Woodsburne comes to his senses, so he doesn’t see the way Steinle’s expression goes dark and tight. The way it pins to Arthur, intense, unflinching. But Eames sees it. Sees it and curses. Because he recognizes the look of lust in a man’s eyes as easily as he would his own name.

 

 


	5. Oh Sun, Come Out Today

 

In the space of one word, Eames’s mood plummets from _upset_ to downright _troubled._ All because Steinle—flushed and grinning over the success of the job—proposes they all go out for celebratory drinks. And Arthur, in a possible fit of temporary insanity, says _sure._ A small word, simple. Only four letters long. But it’s enough to rock his foundations.

The club Steinle leads them to is trendy and crowded, the kind of place Eames hasn’t enjoyed since his early twenties. But Marlie lights up like kid on Christmas, and Arthur just shrugs, so Eames makes the most of the situation and mad-dogs a pack of university students in order to claim the last open table that puts a wall at their backs.

The four of them make short work of the first round—well, Arthur lingers over his while the rest of them are quick to order up seconds—and make awkward conversation about work.

Steinle, naturally, doesn’t a miss a beat, finding every excuse to ask Arthur questions and beg for anecdotes about his time on the job. He’s all charm and suave, rather shamelessly in Eames’s opinion, and he’s pretty sure it’s all designed to get under his skin. And it would be working, too, except Arthur crams their seats together and rests his hand high on Eames’s leg. So Eames just smiles, slings his arm across the back of Arthur’s chair, and mentally counts the different ways to break a man’s nose.

After an hour of the Steinle Show, Marlie—god love her punkette little soul—rolls her eyes and drags Steinle off to the dancefloor. Eames is growing rather fond of that kid and decides to keep her on his radar for future jobs. But for now… now he has Arthur all to himself, and he plans to enjoy it.

He gestures to Arthur’s now-empty tumbler. “Another drink, luv?”

Arthur shakes his head and pushes the glass away. “I’m good.” And Eames nods, expecting no different.

“So, yeah. Fancy work with the job today.” He bumps his knee against Arthur’s leg. “Really pulled things off, you did.”

“Another successful job, another big payout.”

He doesn’t make a show of it, but Eames can tell that Arthur's pleased and resolves to throw more compliments his way on a regular basis. In the meantime… “Did that feedback trick of yours work on you, too?”

Arthur shrugs. “It did. Not exactly ideal, I realize, but unavoidable. It’s a trickledown effect, basically, forcing everyone in the dream to share what the dreamer feels.”

“And you still came out on top of all those projections,” Eames lays a hand across his chest, affecting a swoon. “Be still my heart.”

“Shut up.” But Arthur smiles, a dimple-smile no less.

He snuggles into Arthur’s side and savors the moment for a spell. The clubbers writhe and bump to music, creating a tableau of bodies, strobe lights, and movement. It reminds Eames of a nagging thought. He debates with himself for all of thirty seconds when something deeper than curiosity compels him speak. “There is something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

Arthur turns to him, gaze steady and loaded with unmentionable thoughts when he replies, “You can ask me anything.”

That throws him for a spell because, honestly, there’s all sorts of questions Eames would love to ask, and a carte blanche like this should not be handled idly. But there is something he _needs_ to know for some unclear reason. “Back when we first met, during the program… I once saw you take out five fight instructors on your own. You—in just minutes, you had them laid out flat. Like you did to the Smiths.”

He almost takes back the question when Arthur’s easy demeanor evaporates. The face stays neutral, but he leans back a little, away from the heat of Eames’s body. “I’m not sure what day you’re referencing. There was a lot of combat training.”

It’s a dismissal, clear as daylight, but Eames pushes on. “That doesn’t matter. What I’m getting at is—” _What?_ What is he trying to uncover? Eames doesn’t understand really, but instinct tells him it’s important, and Eames believes strongly in instinct. “It was something to see, you know. Real serious shit, honestly. But…”

“But what?”

“Now, not to be insulting, here, but I haven’t really seen you move like that in years. Not like when we were in the program. Not like today.”

“Are you saying I’m getting sloppy.” Arthur tries to tease, but this time Eames recognizes the dimpled smile as a distraction ploy and stays his course.

“You know what I’m saying.” He hopes so, anyway, because _he_ doesn’t even really know what he’s saying. And yet he keeps opening his mouth like a fool. “You’ll always be a dangerous man, Arthur, but you had an edge back then that was…”

“Sharper?” Arthur prompts with a raised brow.

Eames chews on his response before admitting the truth. “Scarier.”

He sees the word hit like a slap to the face. Arthur goes still, all movement about him—even breathing—just stops. His face is blank of expression, but Eames is fluent in Arthurian body language. He can all but see the runaway thoughts spinning off into the darker corners of Arthur’s mind, to places they can never come back from, and he’s quick to soften his tone. “I just want to understand.”

“Understand what?”

“ _You_ , my darling.” He dares to breach the distance between them, reclaiming Arthur’s hand with both of his. “I want to know you. Everything about you. Everything you’re willing to share,” he amends because it won't be enough unless Arthur gives those pieces to him, however much he longs to reach out and grab with greedy fists.

Arthur doesn’t reply right away, staring out across the gyrating dancers with an empty gaze, but he laces their fingers together and holds tight. So Eames waits. He’s starting to understand that he’ll always wait for however long Arthur needs.

It’s not a peaceful interlude for either of them. Silent, edgy, weighted. Eames curses himself when Arthur finally looks over with a strange resignation in his eyes. “You know my training was different from yours.”

“I do.”

“They used the dreams to cheat time. Teach me skills that would normally take years to master.”

Eames nods, having figured as much long ago, and Arthur continues in a stilted voice. “The dreams… embedded the training into my mental reflexes. Like muscle memory for your brain. It wasn’t the same as literally spending a lifetime learning hand-to-hand, but it gave me an advantage.”

“I’ve noticed.” He carefully keeps his expression light, but that doesn’t prevent Arthur from looking increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation.

“But it takes a certain state of mind to…” Arthur gestures vaguely with his free hand, “to access all that. To use it.”

Eames understands instantly. “Deliberate ascension of the subliminal,” he offers. The connection is obvious once Arthur suggests it. Subliminal imprinting isn’t a novel concept—it’s the bread and butter of psychological programming, something he’s quite familiar with—but Arthur’s reticence hints at a deeper experience than the soft-core brainwashing he’s encountered over the years.

Arthur jumps on the explanation, clearly more comfortable discussing the technical aspects of his training than the personal consequences. “Yes. It’s a narrow line, being conscious but operating on a subconscious level. It’s… difficult,” he stumbles over the word, “to stay balanced and not fall onto either side of the line.”

The air in the room seems thicker, the music and voices around them dulled to a stifled hum as Eames follows that statement to the logical conclusion. “I’m guessing you fell a time or two.” He thinks of Dominic Cobb and trains slashing through rush hour traffic. He thinks of crazy French women and Arthur, haunted and weary in a Spanish flat.

Arthur says nothing, left hand twitching at this side. After a moment, Eames realizes he’s fidgeting with his totem, rolling the die between his fingers. Eames backtracks immediately. He has the answers he was really looking for, and the rest isn't worth pushing Arthur off that line. “It’s alright,” he asserts. “We don’t have to talk about it. I understand.”

But Arthur turns to face Eames fully, the downward slant of his lips almost pleading. “It’s better if I keep my subconscious under control. I lose some of the training, but… it’s better.”

Eames can feel his heart breaking with every word, everything he thought he understood about Arthur coming into question. “That’s why you never have more than one drink, isn’t it? Why you always test the compounds before a job. Alone. Why you’re—” He breaks off, gut churning in shame.

But Arthur looks at him through his lashes, mouth twitching. “You can say it. Why I’m such an uptight stick in the mud, with no imagination.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “Well,” he demurs, “I wouldn’t put it like _that_.”

Arthur laughs—actually _laughs_ —and Eames breathes a little easier. “Yes, you would. And you have, many times.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

 _Before I knew how easy it is to love you_ , he thinks. It would be so easy to say, right then. Knee-to-knee, hand-in-hand, this might be the perfect moment to finally say it. But Eames chickens out between one heartbeat and the next, falling back on tried and true methods. “Before I knew with certainty that the only stick up that magnificent arse is my equally magnificent cock.”

Arthur huffs, slouching back in his chair. “Keep it up, wise guy, and we’ll see who gets stuck with what.”

“Promises, promises. And I’ve never said you’ve no imagination.”

“Nice try. Dom told me about your Mombasa encounter.”

“Ah, yes. Right.” Bloody Cobb. “Well, there’s your answer right there. I never tell that man the truth if I can help it.” Eames tosses back the last of his vodka, still feeling out of sorts. “Besides, I had to secure my spot on the job, didn’t I?”

Arthur nods. “Because of inception.”

“Because of you.” He blurts before he can second-guess himself, and is rewarded for his candidness with another of those sweet, dimpled smiles he cherishes. It gives him courage. “Can I ask you something else?”

Arthur squeezes his hand. “Always.”

Eames juggles words in his head before finally deciding to just dive in. “It’s just that you’ve been… different on this job.”

Arthur frowns, confused. “In what way?”

“Well, what I mean to say—that is, you’ve been unusually… friendly?” God, he feels like an idiot, well aware of how insulting that sounds. But he’s already gone this far. “Cheery and whatnot,” he finishes lamely.

To his surprise, instead of taking offense Arthur blushes. “Ah. Right. I just sort of…” Arthur’s prevarication increases Eames’s own nerves, his mind starting to go in all the wrong directions. Oblivious to his unease, Arthur continues to explain. “Well, I guess I’m just happy to be here. I mean, I really like Italy, always have. And being here with you, it’s, ah…well, you know… nice.”

And that’s just—that’s just the most wonderful thing Eames’s has ever heard. “Darling.”

“Shut up,” Arthur ducks his head. “It’s stupid.”

“No, no.” Eames reaches out, tips Arthur’s chin up. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Arthur smiles, but it’s not a happy smile. Rather it’s curiously sad, and Eames doesn’t understand it. Can’t stand seeing it, really, so he clears the air the best way he knows. The kiss is slow and soft, and before long he feels Arthur’s lips move into a more natural curve. He slips his arm around Arthur’s waist, closes the scant gap between them with a tug. The next kiss goes deeper but doesn’t lose that gentle touch. It’s the single-most romantic kiss of Eames’s life.

“I have to piss,” Arthur murmurs against his lips.

“You always say the loveliest things to me.”

Arthur gives his hand a final squeeze before pulling away. “Don’t go anywhere.”

But after Arthur leaves, Eames decides he doesn’t want to sit around in a crowded club drinking overpriced vodka. He wants nothing more than to take Arthur and disappear to their hotel room. Better yet, shove him in the rental car and blaze through the nine-hour drive back to Arthur’s safe house in Naples, where they can just focus on each other for a few days.

He tucks a handful of twenties in his empty glass and looks for the restrooms, too impatient to wait for Arthur to return to their table. It takes a bit of maneuvering to get past the dancefloor, but he finds the directional sign for the restrooms and turns into a dim corridor.

And stops cold.

“Eames,” Arthur starts, shoving Steinle’s hand away from his belt buckle.

But Eames has no interest in listening.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, it's coming... Next chapter: curse words and clavicles. Stay tuned!


	6. I Must Decline

He’s seen snuff films that were less nauseating, less rage-inducing than the sight in front of him.

Arthur has his back to the wall, Steinle swaying ever closer as he slides his hand down the front of Arthur’s waistcoat. Steinle doesn’t see Eames at the end of the hall, doesn’t see Arthur’s murderous expression, because he’s too preoccupied watching his own fingers trail dangerously close to Arthur’s belt buckle.

That inattention is about to cost him dearly.

Eames is moving before the decision to do so can catch up with his brain. The next few seconds transpire like flashing vignettes. He sees Arthur become aware of his presence just as he’s shoving Steinle off. Sees Arthur huff and open his mouth to say something. No doubt about to caution Eames against getting arrested for assault. Because, yeah, it’ll be a shame to burn an identity he’s spent years cultivating.

But Eames doesn’t really give a shit about any of that right now.

Right now… he just wants the fucker to scream.

He’s on Steinle like a storm. Grabs the offending hand and wrenches it behind Steinle’s back, hard enough to illicit a pained yelp. Clamps his other hand on Steinle’s opposite shoulder and yanks him away from Arthur. He pivots, prey in his grasp, and slams Steinle face-first against the opposite wall of the corridor.

Steinle manages to turn his head just in time to avoid having his nose driven into his skull. Good thing, too, because Eames immediately lugs him back for a second go. He leans in with the movement, using his own considerable body weight to increase the impact as Steinle hits the wall with thin cry. This time Eames hears the snap of broken bone, feels Steinle’s left arm sag in his hold.

He lets the arm drop and gets his hand up over Steinle’s mouth before the man can think to call for help, fingers digging hard enough for nails to score flesh. And then, having conveniently muzzled his victim, Eames lets his fist fly. Quick, punishing blows that target all the places most sensitive to pain. He gets in a couple of good kidney punches, doing his best to make sure Steinle will be pissing blood for the immediate future.

He stops tracking time and reality, consumed by the singular need to hurt, to damage. He’s only vaguely aware of Steinle screaming against the palm of his hand, the shuddering body trying to wrench itself out of his hold. His most coherent thought—to get a nice grip on that goddamned hipster hair and send the fucker’s head through the wall.

And then Arthur is there, sliding both arms around Eames’s waist from behind, that caramel-rich voice talking in his ear. “Enough. Come on, Eames, he gets the message.”

Eames glares over his shoulder at Arthur, resentful of the intrusion. His hands tighten their grips, muscles quivering from the effort of restraint. But Arthur drapes himself across Eames’s back and leans in to place a delicate kiss on the corner of his jaw.

“Come on, baby. That’s enough.” And then, “People are starting to take pictures.”

Eames looks past Arthur to the mouth of the corridor, where a gaggle of slack-jawed club goers are soaking up every move with open glee. And, yes, several of them have their mobiles out, taking pictures, maybe videos even.

Well… hell.

He turns, Arthur still wrapped around him, so that their faces are away from the onlookers and their cameras. Steinle takes advantage of the diversion and struggles out of his slackened grip, holding his shoulder.

“Fuck, man. _Jesus_.” He stares at Eames, shaking and crazy-eyed. “ _Fuck_. You’re seriously unhinged, you know that? Crazy motherfucker.”

Eames can’t draw his arm back enough to throw a proper punch, not with Arthur in the way. So he rears up, kicks Steinle square in the chin, and savors the way Steinle crumples to the floor.

Steinle rolls around, clutching his face with the hand not attached to a useless arm, howling in pain. It’s a little bit embarrassing. From the corner of his eye, he sees Arthur scowl in distaste.

“Pipe down, kid, and you just must survive this,” Arthur says.

Steinle flops onto his back and stares at Arthur. Above the bloody smear of his bruised mouth, his expression is stunned and betrayed. “Seriously?” he gasps, words garbled around a swollen tongue. “You’re really sticking with this… Neanderthal?” The implication that Steinle considers himself a tastier alternative is clear.

“Of course,” Arthur states calmly, like a foregone conclusion spoken to a small child.

“But I…”

Eames feels Arthur shrug. “What about you?” he asks, voice flat and disinterested.

Steinle just gapes like a dying fish, for once no cavalier response at the ready.

Eames could care less. His blood is still running hot, unsatisfied by the one-sided fight, and he’s got better things to do than waste more time on this little shit. “We’re leaving,” he announces. He doesn’t give Arthur time to respond, just takes his hand and hauls him out of there.

 

 

The taxi ride back to their hotel is a haze. Eames is distantly aware of shoving Arthur into the back of the vehicle and crowding in after him, but he couldn’t say if the ride takes an hour or five minutes. Neither of them talk. Neither of them say a word during the drive, or the trip up the elevator, or even the short walk down the hall into their suite. It’s not until Arthur closes the door behind them that he finally breaks the silence.

“Well,” Arthur says, “it’s safe to assume Steinle won’t be working with us anytime soon.”

Eames immediately starts pacing the small sitting area, even though the tight circles of movement only make him more light-headed. He can’t breathe, can’t think, and he channels all that building frustration into movement. But Arthur is talking, saying something about work? _What the fuck is he on about?_ What does Eames care if—

“Too right,” he scoffs. “The fucker.”

Steinle will be lucky if he works with _anyone_ anytime soon. Eames knows where the little bitch is staying, sourced that info back on day one. A ritzy joint that caters to nouveau-riche and coked out ballers, the type of place used to cleaning up messes and forgetting faces. Should be easy enough to get in and out. First going to have to do something about those club photos, and isn’t that an unlucky turn of events, but Arthur can easily—

“Eames,” he hears Arthur sigh and forces himself to pay attention. “You broke his clavicle.”

He flicks Arthur a narrow-eyed look and paces faster. “He touched you.”

The image is seared onto his eyeballs, taunting him—Steinle’s hand stroking down Arthur’s chest, no doubt feeling all the tight, wiry muscles hidden beneath expensive cloth. Feeling the heat of him, standing close enough to smell the cologne on his skin. It’s unthinkable that Peter Steinle knows what Arthur feels like.

Arthur sighs again and snags Eames’s arm as soon as he gets close enough. Eames wants to pull away and keep moving, but there’s something else he wants more. He focuses all his attention on Arthur, on that beautiful face and lush hair—falling loose after the long day. Eames adores Arthur’s usual, straight-laced appearance, but he loves Arthur like this… softer, younger, with the slightest hint of vulnerability and, _damnit, he’s talking again, what is he_ —

“You do know that I’m perfectly capable of fending off unwanted advances on my own.” Arthur strokes his hands up and down Eames’s arms like he’s soothing a fractious animal. But Eames doesn’t want to be soothed. The touch just fuels the restless fury inside him. His skin feels too tight to contain all the energy buzzing just beneath the surface, building and building and _fucking building_ until it escapes him in the form of an inhuman growl.

He reaches out and hauls Arthur against his chest, gripping Arthur’s arms hard enough to bruise. “Don’t care. He _touched_ you.”

Arthur meets his gaze head-on, dark eyes gone black with surging emotions. “You didn’t like that, did you.”

“Fuck no.” He says it, and he means it. But he braces for the censure, the condemnation for acting like a jealous, untrusting brute. _Neanderthal._

He doesn’t expect Arthur to smile—a slow and filthy thing that speaks to the animal instinct raging inside of him.

“Then do something about it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: challenge accepted! Noise complaints and territory marking.


	7. And Now You're Ready

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this entire chapter is pretty much porn with some feels. Cheers.

 

"Then do something about it."

Despite the explicit challenge on his face, Arthur fits his body against Eames’s with obvious glee. It’s only then that Eames registers the hard pressure of Arthur’s erection, the needy hands gripping the front of his shirt.

And as easy as that, the nagging insecurity that’s been plaguing him for weeks—maybe even longer, maybe since the first time he woke up to those dark, inscrutable eyes—all that doubt and tension slips away, leaving behind a single-minded determination to make this perplexing man his.

Eames pulls their mouths together for a feral, lip-bruising, teeth-scraping kiss. He doesn’t have it in him to be sweet and gentle tonight; he wants heat and that vicious kind of desire that leaves no room for second thoughts.

As always, Arthur somehow reads his mind and resists just enough to make his mouth water, matching him bite for bite, grunt for gasp. Eames snaps the buttons off his waistcoat, so Arthur smacks his hands away and attacks Eames’s flies. He retaliates by sinking his teeth into the curve of Arthur’s neck, even as Arthur pushes him against the window and grinds his cock against Eames’s hipbone. They tangle all around the sitting room, knocking into furniture and spreading clothes like casualties of war, hands grabbing at bared skin and leaving finger-shaped marks all over each other.

Eames eventually gets Arthur backed into the nearest wall, pinning him up against a lovely Klimt reproduction so he can get more of his tongue into Arthur’s mouth. The canvas buckles and tears under the pressure of Arthur’s head and shoulders, but neither of them pay it any mind. Eames braces a hand against Arthur’s sternum and shoves him back. He can’t help but think about how, just recently, that douchebag extractor had him in a similar position and loses his mind just the tiniest bit.

Eames bends Arthur over a prissy little Queen Anne desk, lamps and stationary tumbling to the floor as Arthur sprawls out across the glossy surface. The stance puts Arthur’s sweet little arse on perfect display, open and available to Eames’s dick. He’s about to do something unpardonably domineering when there’s a strident knock on the door.

Eames growls into the back of Arthur’s ear, waiting for the interruption to pass on by, but the knocking doesn’t let up.

“Signori…?”

He stalks to the door with an irritable rumble and throws it open despite the fact that he’s standing there, starkers, with his rampant erection on display. “The _fuck_ do you want?”

A young man in a hotel uniform stares back with wide eyes fixed well-below chin level. He babbles on in Italian that Eames only half-understands, clearly trying to come across as assertive but failing miserably due to the way he can’t seem to catch his breath. Eames doesn’t have the mental capacity to deal with any of that. Blocking the doorway with his arm braced across the opening, he barks over his shoulder. “Arthur.”

Arthur comes up behind him, no more bashful of his nudity than Eames, and starts smoothing things over with the blushing little desk clerk. “ _Ci dispiace se siamo rumorosi. Io e il mio amante diventiamo troppo eccitati qualche volte._ _E, sì, pagheremo per eventuali danni_.”

The desk clerk eyes one man, then the other, chewing on his lip. And then he winks. “ _Non ti biasimo_.” After a final, thorough look and a rather rude gesture with his tongue, he leaves them in peace.

Arthur reaches past Eames to close the door. “Now, then. Where were we?”

“Get on the bed.”

 

 

The bed doesn’t have one of those frilly headboards, with slats and spokes or even posts. But Eames is able to use two of Arthur’s nicest ties to anchor Arthur’s hands to the bed frame, flat on his back when he isn’t bucking and writhing into Eames’s mouth.

“ _Fuck_. Jesus, Eames.”

Eames wraps his hands around Arthur’s hips and shoves him back down to the mattress, pinning him in place until all Arthur can do is gasp and tremble while Eames swallows his dick down to the root. He keeps his lips tight and his throat open, rubbing his tongue against the shaft as he sucks and bobs and twists until Arthur is a heartbeat away from coming.

Eames pulls off to the endearing sound of Arthur’s furious cursing, grabs the foot aimed at his face and forces Arthur’s legs wide. “Naughty, naughty boy,” he tsks. “Shouldn’t have done that.”

Arthur glares, tugging restlessly at his binds. “Go fuck yourself.”

Eames jerks his legs another inch apart. “That’s what I have you for. Stay just like that.” He gets up and rummages around the mess on his side of the bed for the lube. Arthur hisses at him like a riled cat, but he leaves his legs spread as they are. “Ah ha!” Eames snatches up the wayward bottle and settles back between Arthur’s thighs.

He doesn’t faff about—just slicks up his fingers and reaches down to rub at Arthur’s hole. The first finger slides in with little coercion needed. “Feel that?” he says. “Still open and ready for me after last night. That was nice, wasn’t it. Fucking yourself on my fingers like a randy teen. Practically had my whole hand in here, didn’t I? Maybe that’s what you wanted. Is that the trick? Do you want my fist filling up your needy hole?”

Arthur stares up at him, pupils blown and mouth slack. “ _Christ_ , Eames.”

He pretends to deliberate it until Arthur starts to squirm and pant. “Mm… no. I think not.” But he does file away Arthur’s response for later consideration. Instead he lines up a second finger and presses in, basking in Arthur’s delectable moans. “Think I’d rather keep you right here, twitching on my fingertips.”

And Arthur does twitch—twitches and shakes and whimpers every time Eames makes a pass over his prostate. Eames savors the desperate way Arthur clamps down on his fingers, knows the moment when pleasure becomes overwhelming yet never enough to finish the job. Because Arthur can’t come without a hand or a mouth or _something_ on his dick, no matter how aroused he gets, a fact that Eames has never been more appreciative of than now.

He eyes Arthur’s cock, flushed and rigid, wet with precome, and presses in a little deeper, a little harder. “Do you feel that? Me inside you? Because this is mine.” Eames bends down and runs his tongue along the inside of Arthur’s thigh. “You. This body. Every bit of you. No one else touches you but me.” And, simply because he can, he bites that little dip at the top of Arthur’s leg. Hard.

Arthur groans, leaning up into the touch. “God, yes.”

Eames isn’t sure if Arthur is agreeing with him or just responding to the attack on his senses, but he wants no ambiguity this night. “Say it,” he demands.

Arthur’s eyes flick open with obvious difficulty. “I’m yours,” he says baldly. “Everything. Completely yours.”

Eames wants to grin and crow with triumph. He wants to trot Arthur naked through the streets and ride his cock in the middle of town square. Instead, he jabs at Arthur’s prostate without mercy. “Mine. No one else.”

“Never,” Arthur breaths.

The admission has him aching like nothing ever before. Eames immediately withdraws his fingers from the hot vise of Arthur’s ass, ignoring Arthur’s unhappy whimper as he sits back on his heels and finally— _finally_ —puts a hand to his own throbbing erection. Skipping all the teasing touches and ball rubbing that he likes to warm up with, Eames impatiently works himself while Arthur looks on with longing. He covets that look, uses it to fuel his arousal from a warm buzz to a surging high.

“Gonna mark you up,” he gasps, chasing the climax until he’s lightheaded. “Leave you covered in me. So everyone knows.”

Arthur yanks at his bound wrists, trying to touch. Or be touched. Both. “Eames…”

“No. Not until I’m done with you.” He leans forward to pinch and roll Arthur’s nipple, careful to avoid any contact with Arthur’s erection. The deep, stuttered moan Arthur lets loose is enough to push Eames over, coming in a hot flash. “God… _yes_.” Grunting, fist twisting up and down, Eames spills his come all over Arthur’s crotch in a blatant gesture of possession.

“Fuck, that’s beautiful,” he says, admiring the way the droplets make Arthur’s prick glisten in the lamplight.

Arthur tilts his hips so he, too, can see and scrubs the insides of his knees against Eames’s sides. “Now. Please, now.”

Eames looks down and sees the slick opening winking at him from between Arthur’s ass cheeks. Mind gone fuzzy with pleasure, he nevertheless decides the night can’t end until he’s spent some time inside that clenching hold.

He shakes his head at Arthur’s beseeching look. “First thing’s first,” he says, crawling up that deliciously laid out body. He holds his dick to Arthur’s mouth, smears the wet tip along his lips. Arthur moans and instantly flicks his tongue out, lapping at every trace of come he can find. The sensation is painfully intense after just coming, but that doesn’t stop Eames from thumbing open Arthur’s mouth and feeding his dick in. “Come on, then. Get me hard again. Hard enough to fuck you properly.”

Eames braces himself against the headboard, leaving Arthur to do all the work. Which he does rather enthusiastically, neck craned to get more of Eames in his mouth, eyes closed, all that legendary focus fixed on his task. Eames can feel Arthur’s needy little moans vibrating up his dick, the insistent suction of that brilliant and clever mouth, and it doesn’t take long for his cock to stir, filling up and hardening again.

He takes over then, dipping in and out of Arthur’s hot mouth a few times, loving the way Arthur fights to keep Eames in him. “Shit, yeah. Gotta fuck you now. Need to…”

He pulls out and moves back down between Arthur’s thighs, hiking those long legs up over his arms, and pushes his dick inside without so much as a by-your-leave. Arthur cries out, voice breaking as Eames sets up a steady, driving pace.

“Yeah, that’s it. Take it all. Come on, love.”

Arthur just keens and gasps with each thrust—struggling to evade the relentless pounding, struggling to receive more. And through it all, Eames memorizes the way Arthur looks when he has him like this, the strained bliss on his face, watches as mindless euphoria gradually gives way to desperate need.

Eames keeps him like that for the better part of an hour, edging the hell out of them both with deep, demanding strokes, rejoicing in his mastery over this strong, willful man. Even when his own pleasure starts to spiral out of control, he pushes and pulls them to just shy of completion. Because Arthur makes the sweetest noises, begs so prettily, and Eames gets drunk on the sound, knowing he’s the only one who will ever hear it, the only one Arthur will allow to see himself so broken down, so base and pleading.

Eventually, though, he does have to slow down—his legs are shaking, his heart is about to explode, but this isn’t how he wants to come. Arthur is a strung-out wreck beneath him, shivering, sweaty limbs and tangled hair. His cock sways between them, harder than Eames has ever seen. And it’s tempting, so tempting, to dip down and wrap his lips around that leaking tip.

It’s then that Eames realizes the thumping he hears hasn’t been from the headboard slamming against the wall but is actually the sound of someone banging—persistently—on the suite door. A flurry of irate Italian and awkward English filters through the barrier, the message clear even to Eames’s fuck-muddled senses.

He hitches Arthur’s hips up, cradling that pert ass in one hand, and leans over to reach the beside phone. Arthur yelps at the sudden changes in angle, tightening up in a truly marvelous way, so Eames resumes thrusting at a lazy pace while he jabs at the phone, dialing the front desk.

He holds the receiver to Arthur’s mouth so he can explain to the pesky management staff that _yes, everything is fine, no, they don’t require assistance, yes, they’ll be checking out tomorrow, sorry again for the noise, so please stop sending people up_.

It might have been more compelling if Eames had stop fucking Arthur long enough for him to catch his breath, but damned if the sound of Arthur’s husky baritone speaking those rolling, mellifluous words doesn’t get him all hot and bothered.

Five seconds after he tosses the phone aside, Eames throws Arthurs leg over his shoulder and hammers away until his balls are tight and Arthur is twisting his face into the pillow to muffle his cries—tears beaded on his lashes, voice hoarse and broken over repetitions of _Eames_ and _please_.

Eames brings his hips to a stop, lets Arthur’s leg drop back to the mattress. “You want me to let you come?” he taunts, arching himself over Arthur on trembling arms.

“Yes. Yes, please Eames.” Arthur’s earnest expression is almost more than he can handle, so open and giving, but Eames knows he’s has to press one final point home before he can give Arthur what he needs.

“Think you deserve it?”

“I—” Arthur frowns and shakes his head, looking lost. “Please.”

Eames tilts his head, letting his residual anger fill his voice. “Not so sure you do. You let that fucker touch you,” he growls, conveying with eyes and tone just how serious an offense that was.

Arthur drops his gaze, visibly retreating inward. “I—”

“No.” Eames reaches out and slaps him across the face, breath catching at the way Arthur’s arse tightens around him in reflex. “You keep your eyes on me and explain yourself.”

He sees the command take hold, Arthur’s eyes locked on his face with open devotion while he visibly quivers from the effort of talking. “I—no. No. I didn’t want it.”

“Then why’d you let it happen?”

“I didn’t. I wanted—” he breaks off in frustration, in confusion. Eames can see him getting hung up in his own thoughts, so he starts rocking his hips again, gently this time, just enough to send Arthur back to that mindless edge.

“What did you want?” he asks in a softer voice, purrs it really, and Arthur writhes against him, eyes struggling to stay open and fixed on Eames. “Tell me, Arthur. Tell me or I’ll keep you just like this. Hard and begging on the end of my cock.” A couple of sudden, punishing thrusts, then gentle again. “What did you want?”

“Wanted to hurt him,” he admits in a rush.

“So why didn’t you?”

“You—I couldn’t—”

“Tell me, Arthur. _Now_.”

Arthur loses the fight and lets his eyes fall to Eames’s chin. “It bothers you. Me. When I’m…” He shakes his head, searching for words that make sense. “You don’t want me like that.”

Eames stops moving entirely and leans down so he won’t miss the quiet confession. “Like what, darling?”

Arthur makes a sudden attempt at freeing his arms from the bindings before sagging back in exhausted resignation. “Violent,” he whispers. “Scary. You said…”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Eames lets his head drop back on his shoulders and curses himself. It’s a scenario he never expected. In his arrogance, his selfishness, it never occurred to him that Arthur would pick up on his concerns in that regard, never dreamed Arthur would internalize Eames’s own insecurities like that. But he _should_ have known—of course Arthur would, of course he did. And Eames, unsurprising, is the cowardly fool that might fuck this whole thing up if he doesn’t learn that, sometimes, Arthur needs to be handled with care.

Eames pulls out, shushing Arthur’s little whine of need.

“Shh, s’okay. Just a little longer, I promise.”

Taking up the lube, he sits back on his heels and reaches behind himself. Under Arthur’s starving gaze, he quickly opens himself up with one, two fingers. “Know what I said. Nevermind that, now. I was an idiot. From now on, anyone _ever_ touches you again…” he takes a breath, easing into the stretch. “I want you break their fucking hand.”

He quickly gets in position over Arthur’s lap and takes hold of Arthur’s cock, still hard and flushed an angry red. Arthur immediately lets out a strangled cry at the touch, pain mixing with his pleasure.

Eames sinks down and takes the full length in one slide. It burns—Christ, it does—his entire body going hot and cold at the same time, blood roaring in his ears. But it’s a sweet, sweet burn that sets his nerves on fire, and every cell of his being is suddenly screaming out with the need to come _now_.

Arthur practically screams when Eames starts to move, finally getting the friction and pressure he’s been long denied. “Oh god, oh god, oh fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_.”

Arthur quickly tips over the edge, sobbing, hips bucking wildly. The erratic movements shove his cock against Eames’s prostate, and he comes seconds later, spending himself all over Arthur’s trembling stomach with his own frantic cry.

Eames collapses on top of Arthur, face buried in sweaty strands of dark hair, and an eternity passes until Arthur’s fidgets convince him to roll off. It’s easier to cut Arthur loose than to unknot the ruined-anyway silk ties, and he’s sure Arthur will have all kinds of things to say about that later. But for now, Eames takes advantage of the fact that he’s apparently fucked Arthur into a near-coma and snuggles that limp, sweaty body against him with a heavy arm. He’s exhausted and feeling kind of filmy—they’re both one sticky mess with spunk just about _everywhere_ —but he’s never been happier to just lie there, staring at the side of Arthur’s face.

Arthur… who gives one last, full-body shiver and makes the most adorable kitten-mewl noise in the back of the throat. Arthur, who lulls his head to the side and blinks at Eames from heavy-lidded eyes.

Darling Arthur, who smiles at him like Eames just slayed a bloody dragon or some equally romantic shit and says, “You’re a little possessive, did you know that?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Story and chapter titles from the song "Weightless" by Floater
> 
> Look for the [Psycho Heroes Soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/user/qvxh3o4rvca6soodo82lagqt8/playlist/2TOcGz53b6ONaVS8Q3gIGZ) on Spotify!


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